Worst Rescue Ever
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: This is a rescue operation, damn it. So someone is going to get saved.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Worst Rescue Ever

Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.

A/N: Written for the amazing **lena7142** and beta'ed by **sockie1000**. This is a completed fic with about 13,000 words. However, I'm spreading out the posting because quite frankly I don't have time to post it all now! I'll aim to have part two up on Monday assuming I don't forget.

Summary: This _is _a rescue operation, damn it. So _someone _is going to get saved.

-o-

Rick's going to die.

Granted, he's had such a thought more than once in his career with the CIA. In fact, with the ODS, he's convinced he's going to die at _least _once per mission. Sometimes more than that. It's sort of par for the course.

Still.

Rick's going to_ die._

Because he's alone, with his cover blown, walking through the streets of Beijing. It's not so much that the Chinese would throw him in prison if they caught him; it's that the Chinese gangsters who are converging on his location have every intention of beating him, eviscerating him, and then generally chopping him up into tiny pieces. There's less to dispose of that way.

China does have a pollution problem, after all.

Rick wants to run; but there's nowhere he can go. He knows a few of the faces, but not enough. This mission went wrong before he could ID enough of them. If he runs, he'll tip himself off for sure. If he walks...

Well, he may delay the inevitable.

The hair on the back of his neck rises. He glances nervously down the busy street, watching the rush hour traffic. There are vendors peddling their wares; school children walking home; businessmen in suits; tourists snapping pictures.

Then, there - a man in dark glasses, his head turned toward Rick.

And there - a man in a leather jacket, huge biceps flexing as he sits on a parked motorcycle,_ watching._

There - the man reading the paper.

There - the woman with her phone out but not looking at it.

There - a car with dark tinted windows.

There-

He's probably paranoid, but with so many options, one of them is bound to be right. Rick's heart skips a beat and his chest constricts. He feels the irrational urge to cry because Rick doesn't want to die.

He keeps walking, his pace picking up. His skin turns to gooseflesh as the crowds seem to converge. He sees a flash of a gun across the street and he flinches.

He's_ going to die._

Ready to run, Rick knows it's suicide, but he has no choice.

Until there's a squeal and the people yelp, the crowd parting just enough as a motorcyle comes to a stop in front of him.

Rick braces himself, ready for anything. But there's no shot. No Chinese gangsters.

Just Billy - holding out a helmet. "Come on, lad," he says, grinning a little. "Your rescue has arrived."

-o-

Rick barely has time to strap his helmet on and slide into the seat behind Billy when they're off. The engine purrs, and the lithe machine moves easily into traffic. He starts to slip, but wraps his hands around Billy, inching closer to the Scot as they start to pick up speed.

"Do you know where we're going?" Rick asks, trying to direct his voice in Billy's ear. The Scot isn't wearing a helmet - it figures he gave Rick the only one - and Rick hastily pushes back his visor to communicate easier.

Billy makes a face, glancing back. "Wherever they're not."

Rick's stomach flips, and he hears the engine before he sees it. There's a lot of traffic out, but the higher pitched grind of the motorcycle is easy to place, especially with its velocity - and its proximity. Rick barely has time to turn when he catches sight of the movement.

It's the motorcycle he ID'd earlier. The rider is still wearing his dark glasses, but his face is hard as he cuts off a driver and makes a pedestrian scatter. He's approaching quickly - and he's not alone.

Rick sees another motorcycle, and then another, converging from different parts of the street and making up time quickly. One darts across the sidewalk; another screeches around a vendor.

Leaning closer to Billy, Rick hisses, "We need to go!"

"Thank you for that helpful assessment," Billy says, but this time he doesn't look back. His hands are tight on the handlebars, his body rigid in front of Rick. "Now hold on."

-o-

Rick's already holding on, but he still almost falls. He's ready for a chase, but when Billy guns the engine, lurching them forward with unprecedented speed, he's still taken off guard. He's even more surprised when they ramp up the curb, cutting through a throng of people who shout and scatter before darting quickly through an alley and taking a hard turn that nearly sends them spinning.

When Billy rights the bike again, Rick's heart is racing as he clutches Billy's shirt for dear life. "You think that did it?" Rick asks hopefully.

Suddenly a shot pings off a nearby car, and someone in the crowd starts to shriek. The roar of their pursuit starts up again and Billy grinds his teeth. "What do you think?"

-o-

This time, Billy doesn't even hesitate. They weave through the traffic recklessly, and Rick's given up on trying to anticipate the moves. He just holds on, trying not to flinch as they nearly crash.

He's not as surprised this time when they leave the sidewalk, slipping up the walkway even as bullets rain down around them. Glass shatters; people scream. Billy doesn't slow down. When he makes a hard left, pulling them off the sidewalk and down a set of stairs, Rick can't help but cry out.

The stairs are jarring, and the bike bounces, metal grinding worryingly. They have trouble gaining traction at the bottom, and Billy mutters something under his breath as he revs the engine hard, giving the gas all its got as they break into a straightaway.

They've gone several yards before Rick realizes they're crossing a small inner-city park, the grassy knolls flush with people out for the morning. Dirt flies up behind them, and when the gunfire starts up again, they have nowhere to hide. Rick tries to duck, but it's not exactly effective, and it's all he can do to keep from falling off as Billy takes another hard turn and steers them toward the bridge.

The bridge.

It takes Rick a moment to understand the implications. His breath catches. "Billy, are you sure-"

There's no time to answer. The engine roars as Billy bears down, and at the speed they're going, there's nowhere to go but down-

Rick's seen motorcycle chases in movies; he's ridden a time or two. There was even the chase through Montevideo. But not this.

Not full speed off a bridge onto the highway.

This is suicide, he thinks.

He's going to die.

He holds Billy tighter as the edge appears and closes his eyes.

-o-

There's no freefall.

Instead, the bike shifts dramatically and they pitch hard to the left. The tires squeal and skid, and Rick can almost feel the pavement coming up to meet them. It takes a moment - a long moment - but Billy manages to right the bike, pulling parallel with the edge of the bridge, following it along toward the cross street.

Behind them, more tires squeal and more people yell and Rick looks back in time to see two of the riders careen into the barricade, flying over the railing to the traffic below. Horns blare; something crunches.

Rick remembers to breathe.

Right as the third bike cuts out early, seeing the turn and compensating, falling in line behind them and closing the gap. The dark glasses are still in place, and Rick swears he sees the man smirk as he raises his gun and starts to fire.

-o-

The gunfire is closer now; more accurate. The bullets nick the pavement and a close shot almost takes out one of their tires. Billy is taut in front of his, knuckles white as he drives them forward. They reach the cross street and keep going before veering off into one of the underpasses. They blow by a construction sign, which gives them a momentary cover of privacy as they leave the traffic behind.

"If we pick the right route, we can lose him," Rick says, glancing back. "We just need to move-"

And they are moving. But slower somehow. Less focused.

Rick looks back at Billy. "Hey, we need to keep going-"

Billy seems to say something, but the words are hard to hear. Rick leans forward, and he's about to ask a question for clarification when he doesn't need to. Because he sees the answer; he sees the reason, plain as day. Blood.

It's smeared on Billy's pants, the stain still spreading while they drive.

Rick swears. "You're hit?"

Billy manages a small nod, his shoulders trembling just a little as he tries to keep them steady on the bike. The fact that he doesn't try to speak says a lot. Too much. Rick's heart flutters.

"Here, pull over - let me drive-"

It's a good suggestion - probably the only suggestion that makes sense - and even though his team seems inclined to _never _listen to him, he thinks Billy might actually take him up on this one.

Except, there's no time.

Because behind them, an engine roars, closing in fast. Rick glances back, his heart in his throat now. There's no time to pull over; there's no time to hide; hell, there's no time for_ anything. _Billy's still driving them forward, even with his face paling and his body starting to sag. His consciousness is clearly dwindling, so the fact that he's able to keep them straight and moving is actually pretty impressive. It's not even a bad clip - in regular traffic they'd fit right in - but this isn't regular traffic. This is a rescue mission, a high speed chase, a fight for their lives - and now they're losing ground.

That's better than the alternative, though.

Still, road kill or a hail of bullets - it's not much of a choice.

So Rick chooses neither.

This _is _a rescue operation, damn it. So _someone _is going to get saved.

The motorcycle gains on them steadily now as Billy's head starts to dip and the motorcycle starts to wave. It only takes seconds before the pursuer is in range, and Rick knows it's up to him now. If Billy can just keep them upright, Rick will take care of the rest.

At least, in theory. In application...

Rick is unarmed, but pulling of a shot while moving is tricky anyway. No, he needs to stop the bike - and that will effectually stop the biker.

But how? And with what? He's got a pen and a wallet and the clothes on his back and-

Rick's eyes light up. "Steady, Billy," he mutters, using one hand to unhook his helmet. Billy doesn't reply but he doesn't have to; the bike wavers precariously but doesn't fall, and Billy keeps them moving. The gunfire starts up again, and Rick winces, jerking hard to undo the clasp. Another volley starts and Rick turns, taking a second to aim and throws.

He misses the rider.

That's okay, though.

He wasn't aiming for the rider.

Instead, the helmet hits the ground, right in front of the bike. There's no time for the rider to veer, and his front tire hits it, causing it to ricochet up. The bike jerks, losing traction, and Rick can see the terror on the man's face even through the dark glasses as the motorcycle goes airborn, twisting in the air before slamming mercilessly back to the pavement.

"Helmets," Rick says with a snort, watching as the man doesn't get up. "They really do save lives."

-o-

Rick did it. He actually managed to stop their pursuer with nothing more than good aim and a bike helmet. For a second, he has a giddy moment of jubilation.

Then he realizes he will probably still die because he's on a motorcycle with a driver who's been shot and he's not even wearing a helmet.

In front of him, Billy's out now, his head dipping forward and the tension leaving his body. As he slips, Rick has to fumble to right him, keeping him from spilling onto the pavement. He manages to catch him, Billy's dead weight pulling hard at him, but the simple act means that there's no one left to even try steering the bike.

Which means, they're still going to crash.

Rick is keenly aware of this, even as he juggles Billy's weight. Rick can't stop the crash, but he thinks maybe he can control it.

He hopes so, anyway.

Grinding his teeth, he tightens his grip on Billy with one arm, using the other to reach ahead to the handle bars. It's a stretch, and he doesn't quite get there, but the shift in his weight tilts the bike to one side. He leans further, heart pounding in his chest, holding his breath as he whispers a prayer and jerks his weight to the side one more time even while he keeps his head up and tries to prop Billy in the other direction.

The bike groans; the engine falters; everything tips as sparks fly and the ground comes up to meet them.

-o-

Rick blinks and the world seems to go white. There's a strange, suspended moment of clarity, in which he realizes a few salient things.

First, he's probably going to die. He should have died a few times on this mission, and really, his luck is probably about run out by now.

Second, dying seems really pretty stupid. Especially after this mission and the motorcycle chase and getting rid of three overzealous pursuers.

Third, he needs to call his mother.

Fourth, he should have kissed Adele more often.

Fifth, Billy needs to work on his rescue skills.

Sixth...

Rick opens his eyes.

Sixth, Rick's not dead. Which renders the first and second realization pointless. The third and fourth are still relevant, but they can probably wait.

The fifth, however.

He startles upright, wincing as pain flares in his side. Nothing feels broken by everything is strained, and the skin on his left side feels a little like it's on fire. He looks down and sees shredded fabric on his arm and a nasty string of abrasions underneath. Road rash; painful, pretty nasty looking, but probably not fatal.

For a moment, he wants to laugh. He not only downed his attacker with a helmet but he managed to crash without said helmet and still be relatively fine.

There's still that fifth point...

Gingerly, he gets to his hands and knees. Breathing tightly, he sees the bike skittered in the distance. Then, he sees Billy.

The Scot is sprawled on the ground not far from him.

He's not moving.

Swallowing, Rick forgets all the points and drags himself over. "Billy?" he calls, settling in next to his friend. "Hey, you okay?"

Billy doesn't answer, but he doesn't particularly need to because the answer is pretty clear. The crash doesn't seem to have caused much damage - less than Rick, actually. Part of his jacket sleeve is tattered and there's a marred section of his pants. There's a small scrape on his cheek but no other apparent damage.

Except the gunshot.

It's still bleeding, not copiously, but it's soaking his pant leg and smeared across the ground.

Grimly, Rick clasps Billy's shoulder. "Hey," he calls again, closer now, more insistent.

Beneath his touch, Billy stirs, eyes fluttering open as he struggles to focus.

"Billy?" Rick prods.

Billy's eyes dart about before they finally settle on Rick. Then his brow furrows. "We crashed?"

Rick snorts. "Yeah," he says. "After you were shot."

Billy just looks more confused. "Our attackers?"

Rick glances back; he can still see the unmoving heap where the last one went down. He's stony when he looks back at Billy. "Taken care of," he says.

Nodding, Billy's consciousness seems to flag and his head starts to loll as his eyes drift shut.

Rick shakes him again. "Hey," he says. "We're still not in the clear. We need to get to the extraction point with Michael and Casey so we can get out."

Billy struggles but manages to focus. "We have the coordinates, but our attackers weren't working alone," he says.

"I know," Rick agrees. "So what was the next part of your plan to get us out of here?"

Billy's nose wrinkles. "Well I was planning on driving us out..."

Rick waits for more. "It was bad before, but by now, they've got a dragnet out there for us," he says. "We may even have the police on us now."

Billy's breath seems to stutter as he inclines his head. "Indeed," he muses. "That was our one opportunity for a getaway, and I'm afraid it's gone now."

Rick works his jaw, and tries his best not to panic. There's no one shooting at them; no one is actively following them. Things aren't good but they've been worse.

At least, that's what he tells himself. "So what was your contingency?" Rick presses.

"Contingency?" Billy asks.

"Yeah, your backup plan," Rick says. "In case we couldn't make a clean break the first time out."

Billy sighs, eyelids slipping. "I'll admit," he says, voice barely a murmur now. "I didn't think quite that far ahead."

The words seem to leave him spent, and Billy closes his eyes again, the blood still seeping from the wound. For a second, Rick can only stare.

And then he realizes: there is no out. Billy has no hidden tricks; there is no quick fix. Hell, there's not even a slow fix, as best Rick can tell.

There's just Rick, with a blown cover. Billy, who's got a slow, persistent bleed. Michael and Casey, waiting for them ostensibly at the airfield. Chinese gangsters from at least two factions, who want to kill Rick for lying, for stealing, and for betraying them.

There's just Rick - and no way out.

-o-

Rick's going to die.

The three men on motorcycles is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. There will be more. There probably already are more, moving to converge on his position. He's basically a sitting duck, and even if he was armed, protecting Billy would be hard enough without worrying about trying to get out.

Which means, Rick's going to die if he tries to run.

He looks at Billy. He could run without Billy, but the Scot came back for him. Billy's only hurt because of Rick's blown cover, and if the Scot will risk his life to rescue him, Rick can only return the favor.

Which would be more noble if Rick wasn't going to die.

His head goes light; he feels shaky. He blinks rapidly, tears stinging behind his eyes. He doesn't want to die; he just _doesn't._

He takes a jagged breath.

What if he doesn't have to.

Running is suicide. But maybe he doesn't run.

As a kid, Rick's short legs had made him easy pickings during a recess game of tag. But then he'd learned that the trick wasn't to_ run _faster than the other kids; the trick was to stay away from them longer. If he ducked behind a slide or curled up under the jungle gym, he could always outlast them all. The strategy turned him from a playground loser to a bonafide hero for underdogs everywhere.

This isn't the playground, but the idea is the same. If Rick can't run, he just has to hide.

With new resolve, he shrugs off his jacket, using it to hastily bandage Billy's leg. He ties it as tight as he can't, eliciting a groan from the Scottish operative.

Without hesitating, Rick moves, using Billy's good arm to lever him into a seated position. The change makes Billy groan again, and his eyes flutter as his breathing catches. "Rick?"

"Yeah," Rick says, positioning himself under Billy's arm and starting to lift.

Billy inhales sharply, his weight heavy across Rick's shoulders. "What are we-"

"Can you walk?" Rick asks, grunting as he drags the taller man upright, gripping Billy's wrist tightly.

Billy makes a face, fumbling to find his footing. "Not far," he says breathlessly. He wheezes for a moment, shifting his weight to his uninjured leg. "You'll never make it with me. You should leave me and run-"

"I'm not leaving you," Rick says, adjusting his grip as he guides Billy forward a step.

Billy hisses, biting back a cry. "I can't run-"

"We're not running," Rick returns, trying to pick up the pace just a little, even as Billy's larger frame bears down on him.

"But-"

"We're hiding," Rick continues tersely.

But stumbles a bit, gasping. His face is pinched and white. "But-"

"But nothing," Rick snaps, stopping them abruptly to look fully at the other man. "You had your turn. Now it's my turn, okay?"

Billy looks chagrined; he actually looks stricken with wide eyes and a guileless expression. Rick almost feels guilty, but Billy inclines his head, even as he squares his shoulders. "I'm not really in a position to argue, it seems," he says finally.

Rick takes a steadying breath, nodding as he lets it out. "No," he says. "Now stay with me."

"Aye," Billy says as he limps to keep pace. "Lead on."

-o-

Rick walks with less flair than Billy drives, but their slow and steady progress is still something. Outside the garage, Rick chooses the back alleys, sneaking along as far away from the street as possible. He hears sirens in the distance, but does his best not to flinch, focusing instead on keeping Billy upright and moving.

It's no easy task, either. The walk is straining Billy, and the burden is weighing Rick down, too. They won't make it much farther like this.

Which isn't part of the plan. Rick just has to find the right place.

There are plenty of nooks and crannies in the alleys, but they're still too exposed. He needs something inside.

He starts to try the doorknobs, just to see. Most are locked, and the first few he open show too many signs of activity. Billy is listing heavily by the time they walk three blocks, and Rick's sweating through his shirt. They're both ready to collapse when the next door gives and opens into a dark hallway.

Rick hesitates, listening as he looks down. There's no sign of movement.

Stepping in, he waits again, eyes scanning the walls and the floor.

It's dusty; it's dank. Being unlocked, there's a good chance it's used, but the dark hallway hardly looks like a place where people loiter.

Cautious, he ventures in. There's a staircase. Glancing up, he can see light filtering through a window higher up. Glancing down, there's nothing but dark.

Pursing his lips, he adjusts his grip on Billy again. "Okay," he mutters. "We're almost there. You think you can manage the stairs going down?"

"Down is about the only place I'm going," Billy quips.

Rick doesn't laugh, and Billy says nothing as Rick leads them into the gloom.

-o-

The steps down creak and Rick flinches with every step, expecting someone to come after them. By the time they reach the bottom, Billy is almost slumped on top of him and Rick's shoulders ache pervasively. They're both breathless, and it takes all he has not to collapse on a heap right there.

At the bottom, there's another hallway. The first door opens to a furnace room; the second holds tools. The third seems to have boxes. The fourth has nothing at all.

It's still a risk, of course, but so far it's the best one he's seen. They just need a place to hide, until Michael and Casey can come and rescue _both_of them.

"Okay," Rick says, half dropping Billy as they both slide to the ground. "I think this will work."

Billy groans, and his eyes are wet in the dimness. "And the plan?"

"We wait," Rick says, wetting his lips as he tries to help Billy settle into a somewhat comfortable position. He finds Billy watching him, and tries to smile. "This is a rescue operation after all, isn't it?"

Billy's mouth ghosts slightly into a smile. "That it is," he agrees, even as his slip shut and he starts to sag.

Rick watches his breathing even out before he lets out a sigh. "Let's just hope it goes better this time."

-o-

Hiding is the smart option. That doesn't mean it's easy. Billy slips back into unconscious quickly, and this time, he shows no sign of waking. Rick roots around and finds the penlight he carries in his pocket, and grips it between his teeth to get a better look at the wound.

The bandage has slipped and is heavily stained. Removing it, he looks through the rip in Billy's pants to see the small, puckered wound on Billy's thigh. Fresh blood continues to well up, but not as fast now. Still, there's no way to know how much Billy has lost - or how much more he can afford to lose.

With that in mind, Rick is more purposeful in wrapping the wound this time, tying the bandage securely and making sure it is well packed. Billy will still need a hospital - and possibly a transfusion - but it should buy them some time.

How much time, Rick doesn't know. Rick also doesn't know how long it will take before help arrives. He checks his own emergency beacon - and it's still active. But if Billy came to the rescue, then Michael and Casey probably aren't going to be motivated by that just yet. He needs to tell them that things have gotten worse.

Muttering an apology, he goes through Billy's pockets until he finds the lighter. Billy doesn't stir as he flips it open and presses the button. The red light comes on, and Rick closes the top again, flipping it back open just to be sure it's still lit.

Billy's distress beacon should send the message loud and clear.

With a sigh, he tucks the lighter back into Billy's pocket and looks at the unconscious man again. He does his best not to fret, but he can't deny that it's hard. Walking through the streets with a target on his back was hard enough; sitting here idly...

Is almost torture.

It's all he can do, though. Sit, tend to Billy, and wait for rescue.

-o-

Rick waits.

He checks on Billy regularly, watching the bleeding and pressing his hand to Billy's forehead before fingering the pulse on his carotid artery, counting the beats, just to be sure. He takes stock of their supplies - which include mostly nothing; he'd been forced to give up everything when he'd been made and Billy's cell phone is broken from the crash - and scavenges about the abandoned room for anything he can find.

Which is to say, he finds nothing useful. And the mousetrap is awfully large, which is somewhat unsettling.

He checks Billy again, finding the Scot unchanged. Then he busies himself by checking the hallway and securing the door. The lock doesn't function, so he sets up a chair at the end of the hallway as a makeshift trip wire; that way, if someone is coming, at least they'll know.

When he's looking for the chair, he finds a better flashlight, which he sets up in the dank room where he's holed up with Billy. The glow is a little eerie, but it's better than his penlight, and he can easily see Billy's wan complexion in the dimness.

He checks the bandage; feels Billy's pulse. It's faster now; his breathing more shallow. There's the faintest sheen of sweat starting to break out on his hairline.

Rick gets up; he paces; he checks.

Billy sleeps fitfully; he bleeds; he gets worse.

No matter what Rick does, he can't change that.

Rick works and he tries and he does everything he can, but he's still waiting.

He sits on the ground, huddled next to Billy.

They're both just waiting for a rescue that Rick has to believe will come.

-o-

Billy's breathing starts to wheeze; his heart rate flutters. His skin is clammy, and he starts to moan and mutter in his sleep. Sometimes his eyes open, but even when Rick's right there, Billy can't seem to see him before he slips back under.

Billy's getting worse.

Billy shudders in the dark, whimpering in the stillness.

Billy's dying.

And Rick's waited long enough.

-o-

Plan B isn't very good, but since Plan A was nothing more than hiding and hoping for the best, Rick figures it's better than nothing. He still has a map of the city tucked into his wallet, and he lays it out under the beam of the flashlight, trying not to listen while Billy's breaths continue in staggered intervals.

Instead, he finds their location - or pinpoints one as best he can. Then he glances up the map and looks for another area he knows, one he scouted before the mission began. In the northern part of the city, there's an FBI office attached to the American Embassy. It's not exactly a welcoming face, but he knows when push comes to shove, no amount of bad interagency blood will usurp_ actual _blood. If Billy's dying, they'll help.

Of course, getting there's another story. On foot, it'd be impossible. He'll have to steal a car, preferably something with doors this time. If he can find tinted windows, even better. Anything to cover his identity while he drives through a city full of mobsters looking to kill him.

It's risky, of course. If he's ID'd, he's not sure they'll be quite as lucky on a second high speed chase. They'll be killed or arrested, and even if they do make it to the annex, he'll probably compromise his CIA cover so badly that he may never be able to work in China again.

If at all.

Of course, the alternative is sitting here in the dark while Billy dies. Jaw locked, he glances at Billy. He's colorless now, shivering visibly. He's going downhill fast, and no matter what Rick does, the wound continues to leak blood. He's running out of time.

_Billy's _running out of time.

Which makes the decision easy in the end.

If rescue won't come, then Rick will have to go to it.

-o-

He's shaking while he fixes the bandage over Billy's leg, adding another strip of fabric for good measure. He knows there's a good possibility that walking outside will get him killed, but he doesn't see another choice.

His fingers linger on Billy's pulse before settling on his shoulder with a squeeze. He feels like he should say something, but honestly, at this point, he doesn't know what.

With a sigh, Rick collects his resolve and gets to his feet. The hardest part isn't walking out into a city looking to kill him; it's walking out alone. If he's going to have any chance to steal a car, he can't be carrying Billy. He has to steal the car, bring it back to the alley, and then transfer Billy out.

All before anyone gets suspicious. At this point, it's a tossup as to whether he'd get the cops or the mob on his tail. And really, he's not sure what'd be worse. It's not even the lesser of two evils. It's just one impossibility after another.

He glances at Billy.

He takes a breath.

And then something crashes noisily in the hallway.

For a second, Rick is so stunned that he forgets to move. Then he realizes that it's the makeshift trip wire he set up - someone has come down the stairs and knocked the chair over.

There's a muffled curse and then everything goes very still. Rick's heart hammers in his chest. The gangster could be checking building by building. They'd know the location where they'd crash; it wouldn't be impossible to trace them here.

He looks at Billy again, still insensate on the floor.

The hallway is unnatural silent, and the hairs on the back of Rick's neck start to rise again. He's still unarmed, but he can still win a fight. He inches back, dropping into a position of attack behind the door. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, calling on his resolve, harnessing his nerves. He's ready.

Or at least, as ready as he'll ever be.

The door knob moves, minutely at first but then it turns all the way. There's a pause and then the latch releases and it creeps open. Slow, steady-

Rick tenses. He'll only have one shot.

A foot inches in, then a leg, and when the shadowed torso comes into view, Rick pounces, flinging himself forward with everything he has.

The body hits the ground hard and there's a _oompf _of surprise. Rick doesn't hold back, wailing in rapid, uncontrolled movement until the body beneath him yelps in pain. But before he can get another punch off, someone grabs his hand and twists. The pain is immediate, and Rick caves, flailing to turn himself to minimize the pressure, even as the second attacker keeps him on his knees.

It takes a moment for the pain to die down, and he looks up desperately to see who it is who bested him; to at least see the face of the person who is probably going to murder him.

The darkness still shrouds everything but the pale face above him is twisted with a snarl.

A familiar snarl.

Behind him, there's scuffling, and the first attacker gets to his feet. He moves around, checking his bloodied nose with his hand before looking at Rick with a smirk.

"Nice to see you too," Michael says.

Rick gapes. "You're here?"

Casey glowers. "We can leave again if you want."

Michael chuckles. "But that'd be a pretty crappy rescue."

-o-

His team, as it turns out, is pretty awesome.

Michael and Casey have impeccable timing, and their unflappable presence calms Rick's nerves almost immediately. Sure, the whole city is probably gunning for him, but he has help now. Rescue has arrived - for him and Billy.

With newfound courage, Rick helps prepare Billy to be moved. Rick has to think this will be a short trek, but lugging Billy won't exactly be easy. Fortunately, Casey's brusque bedside manner is enough to bring Billy back to consciousness, and the two of them are grousing as they work together to get Billy upright and mobile.

Still, it's a slow, arduous trek. Billy's awake and moving a little, but the blood loss has made him weak and drowsy, and Rick has to shrug under Billy's other shoulder to help Casey navigate the Scot through the narrow hallway.

Michael eases his way at point, creeping up the stairs cautiously. "I think we're clear for now," he murmurs, keeping his voice low as he glances back at them. "We've got a car parked in one of the adjacent alleys. We tried to get closer, but you picked one hell of a remote spot to hide, Martinez."

Rick grunts, tugging Billy closer as they start up the steps. "That was kind of the point."

Billy winces as they take the steps, half staggering even as Casey props him up further.

"Well, it didn't make this rescue any easier," Casey mutters. "What the hell happened anyway?"

Rick almost wants to laugh. He doesn't even know where to start. From getting the intel to getting made, to thinking he was going to die to the high speed chase through town. He grunts. "Mission went south," he finally says. "So did Billy's rescue."

Next to him, Billy's head bobs and he hisses disagreeably. "I worked with what I had," he says, the words slurred together as they limp up another step. "A rescue mission on the fly is not the easiest thing in the world."

"Tell me about it," Michael says, reaching the landing and holding, glancing around the corner.

"Yes, well, the whole point of being rescued is getting the person out _alive,_" Rick reminds them, sweating fully now and panting for breath as he and Casey help Billy to the landing.

Billy lifts his head a little, white face looking disappointed. "Is that ingratitude?"

"Well you did get shot," Casey reminds him.

"Yes, rescuing Rick," Billy objects.

"And then I had to rescue you!" Rick exclaims.

"And now we're rescuing both your asses," Michael says, starting around the corner. "So shut up and let us do our job."

-o-

By the time they make it to the street, Rick is too exhausted to be worried. Michael glances around fretfully, but they don't waste time in moving down the alley, Billy almost dragging his feet now as Casey and Rick haul him. They round a corner, and Rick sees the car, and a knot in his chest unfurls as Michael approaches it, opening the back door on the passenger's side to let Billy in.

And that's when the gunfire starts.

-o-

The bullets come fast, and Rick's about to look for cover when he finds himself collapsing under Billy's weight. As he fumbles to catch Billy before they both hit the ground, he realizes that Casey's dropped Billy's other arm, leaving Rick to fend for himself while he joins the fray.

This is annoying, but since Rick's about to be squashed by his own teammate and shot to death, he decides to forego annoyance and focus on survival. He can't stop the fall, so he twists his body, trying to control it instead. He lunges as they go down, hauling Billy the short distance to the relative cover of the car. He hits the ground and scrambles, dragging Billy after him until they're both positioned with the car as a buffer between them and the gunfire.

It takes a minute to get his bearings, but he's struck by the realization that he's survived this far. Glancing down, he can still see Billy breathing, which means the Scot is still alive, too. After all this, they're still good to go.

Michael and Casey, however, may not be. It's a bit of a buzzkill, if Rick's honest, and one he knows he has to rectify if this hellish mission is ever going to end. Getting to his feet, he stays low, but ducks his head around the front of the car to look.

Michael is pinned down behind the door, offering apparent cover fire while Casey works his way across the alley to where a pair of cars is parked. It's risky, but when Casey gets close enough, he doesn't even slow down. He jumps on the roof of the first car, kicking one man before swinging himself down to punch out another. He's taking on the third with a successful chop to the neck when the fourth turns the gun on him.

Casey doesn't flinch. He's moving to disarm when the gun goes off and they both go down.

Rick stares, waiting for Casey to move.

Nothing happens, and the fifth and sixth man start their gunfire again.

Across the way, Michael curses. He lifts himself up and Rick can see his head through the window, eyes focused as he fires four successive shots.

The return fire stops.

There's a moment of silence, tense and uncertain; Rick doesn't dare breathe. On the ground, Billy is still, face colorless and still in the gray daylight.

After a moment, Michael stands. "I think that did it," he says, brow furrowed. He turns toward Rick, mouth open to speak.

And then another gunshot rips through the alley, and Michael goes down.

-o-

Rick stares.

He has to be dreaming.

Surely, he's dreaming.

This can't be real. Because Billy's been shot and is bleeding out and now Michael and Casey are down, too. They all came to rescue him, and now they're all shot, and the only person left is _Rick._

The thought of it makes him want to curl up in a ball and just die right now. It also makes him want to laugh hysterically. But both those options are probably not ideal since they'll probably get him killed.

More than that, it'll cost him what little he has to gain from this mission.

Worse still, it'll leave his team for dead.

Which means, it's Rick's turn.  
_  
Again._


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for those who read part one! I'll try to get to review replies here this morning :) Here's the conclusion! Also, for Rick whumpers, I'll try posting a fic of that variety soon - I promise!

-o-

In truth, Rick's probably going to die. He's got three downed teammates and more than one assailant shooting at him. Plus, at the moment, he doesn't even have a gun.

So he has to save his teammates, kill his assailants, and somehow get them all to safety.

Without a gun.

He's really probably going to die.

But not without a fight.

Keeping low, he reaches up and opens the car door above his head. He ducks around it, scooting forward until he can scoop Billy up under the armpits and start heaving him up. It's difficult to do without standing, but since he doesn't want to get shot, it's the best he can do.

Billy is no help, of course, because this time, he shows no signs of waking. The bandage is soaked through now, blood drenching his pantleg and starting to drip to the ground below. His skin is too cool as Rick manhandles him into the backseat, trying to make sure he doesn't accidentally shove Billy out the other side in the process. As it is, he has to shove Billy awkwardly across the seat, folding the too-long legs into the back before hastily shutting the door.

Gunfire pings above his head, and he squats lower, almost using an army crawl to pull himself to the other side of the car. Bullets start up again, hitting the car above him, and he makes a mad dash for the cover of the door, which is still open. Michael is sprawled beneath it, partially rolled toward the car, his gun lying abandoned behind him.

At a glance, Michael looks dead.

Rick takes a shaky breath and tries not to think about. Instead, he grabs the gun, releasing the safety as a fresh hail of bullets nearly splinters the door in front of him.

Cursing, Rick ducks down, curling protectively toward Michael out of instinct. This shooter is coming from the front, but closer than the ones at the car. He needs to get eyes on him, though, if he's going to have a chance.

There's a brief pause in the gunfire, and Rick chances a glance. Almost immediately, the gunfire starts up again, and Rick sees the flash of a muzzle from behind the dumpster before he pulls himself back to safety.

He curses again, letting out a pent-up, frustrated breath. This isn't an easy shot, but what the hell. If he's going to die anyway-

There's another pause, and this time Rick doesn't hesitate. He stands, aiming at the flash as it rises again and pulling the trigger - one, two, three - before there's a cry and the threat is gone.

For a moment, he feels giddy.

Then, bullets shatter the window in front of him, and Rick draws back again. He's heaving for air, his heart beating wildly in his ears. All this, and he's still going to die.

Desperate, he squeezes his eyes closed and tries to think, tries to forget, just tries.

Gunfire interrupts his efforts, though, and Rick finds himself curling down tighter, craning his head back to get a better look. He can't see anything, though - just the shattered window and gray sky - and if he dies, then Billy dies. And Michael and Casey.

Resolved, he keeps low and rolls Michael over. His team leader moans, eyes fluttering as Rick positions him on his back. "Rick?" Michael asks, voice lilting and uneasy.

Rick swallows, trying to look Michael in the eyes. It's hard, though, because all he can really see is the blood spreading across Michael's chest.

"Got to keep moving," Michael murmurs, eyes flitting absently from Rick to the sky and back again.

Rick snorts softly. "If that was your rescue plan, it might need some work," he mutters, too tired to care if he's being snide.

But the emotion is lost on Michael, whose eyes slip shut just as the gunfire picks up again and Rick is left to fend for himself.

No, for all of them.

Now, he just needs a plan.

-o-

As it turns out, it's easy to critique a plan - Michael's _got to keep moving _had been laughably simplistic amid the blood and bullets - but as Rick comes up with his own, he starts to wonder if simple really is the way to go. After all, he doesn't have a lot of choices. Really, the only option is to keep moving.

So he does.

Michael had been using the back passenger-side door for cover, so Rick wastes no time in moving Michael inside. It's not easy with the intermittent gunfire, but somehow Rick manages to get enough leverage to hoist Michael up, pushing him into the car. Billy's splayed across the bench seat, so he has no choice but to fold Michael up on the floor. It looks uncomfortable as hell, but considering the alternative, Rick doesn't let himself dwell. Instead, he takes a breath, slams the door shut and makes his move.

The gunfire starts up immediately, and this time he focuses on speed instead of height, darting forward and opening the passenger door just as bullets shatter the glass as he dives inside. It's only relative cover and the windshield won't do much to protect him, so he keeps low as he snakes across the seat, his belt catching on the gear shift as he contorts himself into the driver's seat.

For once, he's grateful for his smaller stature, curling up almost like a child as he slouches on the seat and grapples for the ignition. There's no key - of course - so he frantically rips open the steering column and reaches blindly for the wire. Bullets ricochet off the hood and Rick curses, nearly getting under the steering wheel as he looks for the right wires.

But they all look the same, and Rick's sweating and his fingers are slipping as he tries to strip the wires, touching them together in frantic desperation for _something _to go right.

"Come on, come on," he mutters, grinding his teeth together. There's a lull in the gunfire outside, which Rick knows isn't as good of a sign as he wants it to be. The shooter knows where he is, and all this time standing still gives the shooter all the time he needs to reposition for a better shot.

Rick's going to die, he thinks again, stomach flipping. He's going to die because his team can't mount a rescue mission and Rick can't create a spark and it's just so damn _stupid-_

Then, the engine turns, rumbling to life. Rick cries out with palpable relief. It's not a guaranteed out just yet, but it's the hope of one.

At this point, Rick will take it.

Lifting himself, he sits bent over, his head almost lying in the passenger seat even as he grips the wheel and finds the gas with his foot. He hits it hard, but not too hard - while crashing through the cars might be effective, he still has to find Casey, and if the older operative has been shot, running him over with a car probably isn't the best way to save his life.

Still, he can't see much and he can't quite work the brake from this angle, and it's all he can do to keep from careening into the walls of the alley even as the gunfire starts up again.

Rick's fingers ache as he grips the wheel and his foot slips numbly on the pedal as he tries at a lurching pace. "Got to keep moving," he mutters again, trying his best to judge the distance between him and the cars, him and the open end of the alley, him and _freedom. _"Come on, come _on._"

He's about to hit the brakes when something jolts the car. There's a loud pop that sounds like an explosion, and it throws everything off kilter. The car veers to the side and the wheel is wrenched from Rick's hands as his foot is jarred clean off the gas, leaving the car careening recklessly. He has to sit up a bit, trying to regain control, and the moment he does the windshield is shattered by a deafening pop right as Rick sees the wall come up to meet them and everything goes dark.

-o-

But it doesn't stay dark. At this point, Rick sort of wishes it would, but apparently today might not be his day to die after all.

Blinking, he tries to clear his vision but finds that his ears are ringing. His head aches and the side of his head is coated with blood, which stings his eye and tickles his ear. He shakes his head to clear it, but it's not until a bullet lodges in the leather above his head that he really gets it together.

Because Rick's not going to die. Not after all this. He's just _not._

Growling, he throws himself across the seat, undoing the latch and flinging the door open. Whoever is shooting at him has a great vantage point. It's like they can follow his every move.

Which probably means they can.

Which probably means they're above him.

On the ground, Rick squints up. His vision is a little blurred, but the next bullet directs his attention to the fire escape across the street. The man there is in a black jacket and studded jeans and he's got an impressive looking gun, but he can't shoot worth crap because Rick's not dead yet.

Though, out of the car, in open daylight, Rick's a simple target.

He has one shot at this.

He only needs one shot.

The man is reloading and Rick narrows his gaze, lifts the gun, and fires.

One shot.

One hit.

The man flails, falling with a cry as he tumbles from his perch and crashes to the pavement below.

Rick stares, too shocked to move. He's done it. The alley is quiet; Rick's still alive.

Then, his stomach turns. There's some pleasure in being the last man standing, except that means his teammates are down, too. Billy came to save him, and Michael and Casey after that. They're here for him, because a team leaves together.

After all this, Rick's going to make sure they leave together.

No matter what.

-o-

Every instinct is telling Rick to _run. _He's already tried hiding; now it's time to make a break for it and hope for the best.

The problem is...

Well, there are a lot of problems. First, the car is slammed into a wall and still blocked. More than that, leaving behind bodies is sort of the kind of mess the CIA tries to avoid, and mostly, he has to get his team out of here.

One problem at a time.

First, the car. The car Michael had procured is a lost cause, but it occurs to him that there are two other perfectly good vehicles parked right in front of him. Hastily, he scurries over, stepping over one of the bodies on the ground as he ducks to the open driver's side door. Exhausted as he is, he can't help but grin when he sees the keys are in the ignition.

So they have a vehicle.

He glances back down at the body he just stepped over. The man could be dead, but he could also be alive. Rick can't really do much about it either way, but if he leaves the body here, it's going to draw attention. Plus, he'd probably run over it. And Rick may kill in the heat of battle when he needs to, but running them over after the fact seems superfluous.

Grunting, he bends over and disarms the man, tossing the extra guns into the car before dragging the lax form to the other car. The doors are still open so he hefts the man up and pushes him in. He does the same with the next few bodies. The man on the fire escape and the one behind the dumpster will have to stay where they are. Rick's prints are already all over this crime scene, so he hastily wipes down the car and hopes the cops can't pick up any prints off the clothes.

Then he gets to Casey.

Maybe he should have gone after Casey first, but the fact is, he doesn't have a lot of options. Ambulances are not possible, and he can't get out of here until all this is taken care of. If he had some help, there could be some thought to triage, but right now Rick's working solo, and he's doing the best he can.

Besides, the fact that Casey hasn't moved isn't good. Casey never stops fighting unless he has no choices.

Stomach churning, Rick tentatively rolls Casey on his back. At first, he sees the blood staining his shoulder. Then, he sees the bloody gash on his forehead. It looks bad, but as he probes the head wound, he realizes he could be worse. Casey's been shot in a non-vital location but it's the impact with the ground that knocked him out. All things considered, Casey might be the best off of any of his teammates.

Guiltily, Rick glances back. Cleaning up is necessary, but he's too aware suddenly of the precious seconds he's lost. Seconds where Billy bleeds out; seconds where Michael's lungs fill with blood.

Seconds they don't have.

Swallowing heavily, Rick lifts Casey, dragging him back by his armpits back to the car. It's easier now that he's not being shot at, and he manages to sit Casey up in a moderately comfortable position before hurrying back over to the other car.

The engine is still smoking, but the back door opens easily. Michael almost falls out, and Rick catches him awkwardly, trying not to feel the hot blood soaking into his shirt. It's too far to drag Michael, so he positions himself carefully, getting under Michael and lifting him across his shoulders until the team leader is in a precarious fireman's carry. The strain is palpable, but it's not a terrible distance, and Rick makes short time before he deposits Michael as carefully as he can from the other side, propping him up in the middle seat. He slumps toward Casey, half flopped on top of him, but Rick figures it'll do.

Jogging now, Rick goes back to the car to fish out Billy. The Scot is a tangled mess of limbs, and he almost drops him to the pavement once before he manages to get him over his shoulders. By the time he gets back to his newly procured vehicle, his shoulders are aching and his legs feel like they're about to give out. He all but throws Billy into the back seat, checking just enough to make sure all limbs are properly stowed before closing the door and moving around to the front seat.

He sits heavily in the driver's seat and glances back. His teammates are all there, pale and bloody and unconscious.

"Just so you know," he tells them in the mirror. "This is officially the worst rescue mission ever."

-o-

He's shaking when he starts the car. By the time he gets back to the main road, he's lightheaded and his vision is blurred, one eye nearly blind from the blood. He tries to wipe it away, but it just smears on his hand and ends up everywhere, so he just stops trying.

He doesn't have the energy. He just needs to drive.

It's a toss up to him whether or not to speed. With his friends bleeding in the backseat, time is of the essence, but he knows that any reckless behavior will probably get him tailed by the cops or the rest of the gang, which would lead to a whole lot more blood. As it is, he can barely see the speedometer as he does his best to stay just above the pace of traffic.

He's nervous. No, he's terrified. Everything has gone wrong on this mission, and with every mile he goes, he expects the next horrible thing to happen.

Except, nothing happens. He gets through the downtown and out of the tourist district. He makes it into the industrial zone when he realizes that maybe he's gotten lucky for once.

It might even make sense. The car has tinted windows, no doubt an asset for the gangsters. Hell, maybe they haven't followed him because they think he's one of them.

Maybe this will work.

And then he glances in the mirror. He looks at his teammates and then sees the car behind him. It's coming up fast but it makes no move to pass him. It's nondescript but the generic black color and the dark tinted windows tell him all he needs to know.

Mostly, that Rick's not lucky.

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel as his starts to go numb.

He's not lucky at all.

-o-

In all honesty, Rick doesn't know what to do, so he just keeps driving. It's a tail, after all, but it makes no effort to hide. It's matching his pace, with no aggressive movements that warrant any kind of reaction out of Rick. They're almost out of the city entirely when it finally occurs to Rick that the driver probably thinks Rick is a Chinese gangster. He is driving the right car, after all.

There is a bit of humor in that, and for a brief moment, the tension eases in Rick's shoulders. It could be awhile before the driver figures out that something is wrong, and that can work to Rick's advantage as long as he keeps steady and doesn't tip his hand. But there is still the fact that eventually Rick has to arrive at the US Embassy - alone.

Glancing back at the car still matching his driving, that seems easier said than done.

He sighs, pushing a bitter breath out his nose as he looks at his teammates again. They're bleeding; they're dying. Rick needs to go. He might have used too much time already. He can hear Michael breathing noisily, but blood continues to drip down Casey's face and Billy doesn't even twitch.

Rick needs to go _now._

"I could really use some advice here, you know," he says to them, chewing on his lip a little.

They don't say anything. But when Rick thinks about it, maybe they don't have to. Billy came to his aid without a second thought; Michael and Casey mounted a rescue mission with no backup plan. When peril presents itself, his team doesn't hesitate. They risked it all for Rick.

His eyes flit over his team again.

Now it's time to return the favor.  
-o-

To start, Rick presses down on the gas. He's been slowly working up his speed, but now he forgoes all pretense of blending in and guns it. The engine revs, and he pulls away briefly before the car behind him tries to catch up. They make it a few more miles like that, and then Rick really puts his plan in action.

Which is to say, he starts driving like a maniac. He's taken classes on evasive driving so he knows the theories behind it all, but none of that means much to him now. All that matters is getting from point A to point B and ditching the moron attached to his ass.

He takes hard turns, careening around corners at breakneck speeds. The other car follows, frantically keeping up with him, and they make it another mile before the son of a bitch finally realizes what's going on.

And promptly opens fire.

It's not exactly a good development, but it's not unexpected. His team is slumped badly in the back, so they're not particularly at risk for stray bullets. If they crash, though...

Well, they can't crash. So Rick doesn't even think it.

Instead, he keeps his foot down and finds a straightaway, ducking just a little as bullets echo and he reaches for one of the guns on the seat next to him. He tries the handgun, and rolls down what's left of the window. It's awkward to crane his hand back to shoot, but when he gets it in the general vicinity, he shoots several shots.

And misses wildly with them all.

He has to use his other hand to steady the wheel, leaning forward with a curse as the car shimmies from the speed he's going. More shots are fired, one seeming to hit his door, and Rick curses again.

"This is _stupid,_" he mutters to no one in particular. "Because I've lived through how many pursuits? How many fire fights? And it's going to end like this?"

He grits his teeth and holds his gun out the window and fires off a few more shots, hoping like hell that these factories are as abandoned as they look.

He barely has time to pull his hand back in, using his knees to straighten the wheel as he scrapes the curb and the car rocks precariously. In the backseat, Billy is half on the floor and Michael and Casey are intertwined.

He's out of time. Heck, he may be out of bullets soon. And if he drives like this much longer, he really will be out of whatever meager luck he may have left. In truth, these things all look cool in movies - high speed chases with gunfire - but it's actually pretty damn hard.

And dangerous.

Not because someone is actually going to shoot him or even shoot out his tire. But because all that straining and moving means that he's probably going to kill himself and his team by running into a wall.

At least it'll be over, though. One way or another, this is going to be over soon.

He lifts his arm out again, straining it as far as it can go to fire off the rest of the clip. His aim is a little better this time, and the car behind him swerves, but the maneuver costs him as he takes the curb and sideswipes a brick wall.

He yelps, cursing again, and the gun is jarred from his hand as he reaches back into take the wheel with both hands. Honestly, it's enough to make him rethink this whole not-plan thing he's got going on. He looks at his team again, unconscious and bleeding. They make it all seem so easy most of the time.

Then again, they're all dying, so maybe this isn't that easy after all. Not for them.

Not for anyone.

Not even Chinese gangsters.

Rick looks back in time to see the driver fire a few more shots right as his car swerves, taking the same curve that caught Rick by surprise. Only since he's still holding his gun, he's not so lucky. The car veers, then ramps up before flying through the air, flipping once before slamming full speed into a building. The wall buckles and the car crashes to the ground, the hood crumpled and the body mangled.

And just like that, Rick's lost his tail. But there's no time to celebrate. Because this mission isn't over yet.

He glances in the mirror, sees his team again, presses his foot down harder, and drives faster.

-o-

From there, it seems like it should be easier. No one is actively trying to kill him, so really, it kind of is. But Rick is so shaky that he can hardly hold the wheel, his death grip the only thing keeping him on the road as he weaves back to through the town toward the diplomatic center where the Embassy and the FBI attache is located. He doesn't hardly slow down when pedestrian foot traffic starts up again, and he only obeys enough traffic laws to avoid killing someone.

He doesn't look in the mirror.

Instead, he fixes his eyes forward and forces himself to believe. Not to believe, to know. Really, there's just not thinking involved, there's just doing, and it may all be the stupidest thing Rick's ever done and it may all end in disaster, but he does it anyway.

For his team.

That's all there is.

He barely sees the Embassy in time, and he takes the turn so fast that he almost tips. As it is, he has to screech to a stop, the tires burning and the car skidding before everything just stops.

Rick breathes for a second, his head spinning. Outside the guard is yelling, and Rick fumbles with the doors, almost falling when it opens, before he stumbles to his feet.

He's greeted with a gun in his face. "Hey, hey! Hands where I can see them! Hands!"

Just like that, he's being shoved on the ground, face first into the pavement with his arms spread above him while someone pats him down roughly. He cranes his head up, blinking into the daylight, looking at the guard as best he can. The man looks tense, and Rick knows how he feels. But his head is aching and his vision is spinning and he wonders just how hard he hit his head earlier and it's all he can do to say, "I'm American! I'm American!"

There's still a commotion, and Rick is hauled to his feet and thrown against the car, the gun still in his line of vision. Rick blinks and everything seems funny. He takes a ragged breath, the adrenaline going to his head, dissipating in his limbs and just disappearing.

He feels himself sagging, unable to hear the questions anymore. Instead he says, "We're Americans. My friends - they're hurt. I got here - there are Chinese gangsters - you should call the CIA."

The grip lets up just a little and Rick squints to see more clearly. It doesn't help.

Everything is spinning and he licks dry lips. "So if it's all the same to you," he says, at least he hopes he's still speaking. "We could really use a rescue on this one."

And then he passes out.

-o-

Rick's going to die.

He's not sure why he thinks this, but it's the ever-present thought that presses at the back of his mind, nagging at him and pushing him back to consciousness with an unceremonious groan. He blinks, blinded by artificial light. His head is throbbing, and when he lifts his hand to rub it, he notices he's hooked up to an IV.

Confused, his eyes open further and he sees that he's in a hospital bed.

His heart skips.

Maybe he really is going to die.

"Oh, hey," a voice says from nearby.

Rick startles, automatically on alert. He's not sure what kind of defense he could mount like this, but he'll try if he has to.

He's not sure he has to. In the chair next to his bed is a slight woman with close-cropped blonde hair. Her accent is clearly American and her eyes are keen but non-threatening.

"They said you'd probably be awake, so I figured I'd just stick around," she explains, shrugging nonchalantly.

Rick narrows his gaze, trying to figure out what kind of ruse she's playing.

"You're fine, by the way," she continues. She gestures to her head. "Concussion. General bruises. Exhaustion. They admitted you as a precaution."

Rick glances around, notes the distance to the door and tries to gauge if he'll pass out if he needs to stand suddenly.

"I'm Andrea, by the way," she says, pointing to herself again with a smile. "Andrea Dunlap, FBI. I feel like I should know your name since I've been on the phone for the last hour trying to confirm your identity, but the best they'll tell me is that they can't actually confirm or deny that you're here at all, but that we are required to take good care of you."

It sounds reasonable. She does look like FBI with her dapper suit and neat appearance. And the CIA isn't in the habit of outing its operatives even when they pretty obviously out themselves.

Which Rick did, of course. By driving straight up to the Embassy and asking for the easy out, he basically set in motion a chain of interagency phone calls that probably reached the White House at one point.

Rick cringes; Higgins will be apoplectic.

"It's not as bad as you think it is," Andrea says, as if reading his mind. "I mean, your bosses were more concerned about whether or not you got the job done than whether or not I might have picked up any sparse details from what happened." She pauses, studying him. "Though I have to admit, I am curious what happened. You showed up on our doorstep with three injured men in the backseat and a car that had been nearly shot to shreds. I don't know who you were running from or why, but the fact that you made it? Seems like it should be a story worth telling."

It is. Rick knows the hard way. From the mission to the motorcycle chase, to the hiding to the shootout, to the frantic escape to his last ditch beacon of hope - it seems like a story worth telling.

But not to her.

Rick blinks again, his thoughts shifting. "What about my friends?"

The humor fades from her eyes and the curiosity is subdued. "Well, for starters, you should know that you pulled off one hell of a rescue-"

Rick shakes his head; he doesn't want the platitudes. "How are my friends?"

Her jaw works, lips in a thin line. "Maybe I should call the doctor."

-o-

Andrea doesn't want to leave, but when the doctor asks her to go, Rick makes no effort to contradict him. She tells Rick she'll be right outside, not that Rick cares about that right now. He just needs to know about his team.

He worked hard to get them here. He worked harder than he ever had in his entire life. All the things, all the obstacles - everything. Rick hadn't stopped to think about what would happen if it wasn't enough. It hadn't seemed relevant at the time.

It seems pertinent now.

Michael is the most critical at the moment, since he's just barely out of surgery. He took a single round to the chest, which broke one rib and collapsed his lung. The blood loss was significant, but he seems to be responding well to the treatment, even if he is still ventilated and sedated for his own benefit.

Billy's not a lot better off, though his wounds are clearly not as critical. But he'd been badly hypovolemic when they brought him in, to the point where he'd barely had enough blood to keep his heart pumping. They've transfused him, but his body is slow in responding to the changes, and they're pumping him full of antibiotics to try to stay ahead of the inevitable infection from the untreated wound.

Casey's the least critical, but he's the one in the coma. The shot to his side didn't hit anything vital, but the force had been enough to make him fall to the ground - hard. Maybe he took another hit while going down - maybe he was just unlucky - but the impact caused a bleed in his brain. The doctors haven't operated - they think they can control it medically - but only time will tell if his intracranial pressure will stay in check or not.

Only time will tell.

Overall, the doctor is optimistic. He says they all have good odds.

Rick wants to believe him; normally, he might. But after a mission like this, Rick's not sure he even remembers how to be optimistic.

-o-

Rick's the lucky one in all of this. Which is to say, he's not lucky at all.

After the doctor leaves, Andrea comes back in. She looks ready to pepper him with more not-so-subtle questions, but he merely asks for a secure phone, to which she begrudgingly agrees before slinking off to the cafeteria.

He calls Higgins first, who isn't quite apoplectic. At least not until he hears about the motorcycle chase, the shoot out, the dead bodies, and the like. Instead of yelling, though, he asks Rick if there's anything to salvage. They didn't get all the intel they wanted, but Rick can make a few critical identifications, and they still have a few active wires that have been transmitting data.

"That should be enough to make this little fiasco somewhat worthwhile," Higgins finally concedes.

Rick feels spent; he feels embarrassed; he just feels tired. "I'm sorry, sir," he says. "This is all my fault. I was the one who needed extraction and caused all these problems. It's my fault."

On the other end of the line, Higgins sighs. "You saved as much of the mission as you could," he says. "You even saved your team. In our line of work, sometimes that's as much as you can ask for."

Higgins is right, which seems a little weird. Rick's done everything he can. Mostly, he's done his job.

Sitting there, though, it doesn't feel like enough.

-o-

Rick's spent a lot of time on this mission putting things in other people's hand. He trusted Billy to get him out; then he holed up and waited for Michael and Casey. He trusted the FBI when he had to, and he trusts that Higgins will understand that he's done the best he can. So this isn't the first time he's been idle, but somehow trusting the doctors is hard.

As it is, though, that's all Rick can do. Michael, Casey, and Rick are mercifully moved to the same ICU curtain area, and Rick spends his time sitting at one end and watching them sleep. Michael's vitals are improving; Billy's body is stabilizing; Casey's ICP is going down. It's only a matter of time, the doctor says.

A matter of time.

And a lot of trust.

Rick wishes there were a quick fix this time. He wishes someone would whisk him away, would make all this right. He wishes he could hit a button and help would come running. But life doesn't work out that way. Help isn't perfect, and no one is superhuman. His team did what they could for him, and Rick's done what he can for them, but it may not be enough.

That's a hard thing to think about.

Mostly, as he watches his team struggle to survive, it's just hard.

-o-

Sometimes things go wrong.

Sometimes things go right.

Rick didn't die on this mission, and his team didn't either. Michael is removed from the ventilator and Billy starts muttering in his sleep. Casey starts twitching, making small grunts from time to time, and Rick finds himself sitting in an ever-present vigil. He's waited this long; there's no way he's leaving now.

Still, it takes time, and by the time the days have gone by, Rick's weary and ragged. He's had to talk to the doctors, run interference with the FBI in order to clear up the details with local police, and has endured daily briefings from Langley. In all, Rick's had plenty to do - just nothing that actually seems to matter.

And then, they wake up.

They have impeccable timing, which shouldn't be surprise. Casey's been waking up on and off for a few days now, though not cognizant, and Billy's been hazy a few times too. Which is of course, why Michael wakes up first.

He opens his eyes, and Rick's so out of it that it takes a long moment for him to realize the change. Scrambling, he sits up, scooting closer to Michael and grinning stupidly. "Hey," he says. "You're awake."

He knows this could be wishful thinking - he's said the same thing to Casey and Billy and neither of them seem to remember it - but Michael turns his head and looks right at him. His brow furrows and he frowns. "We got out?"

It's surprisingly cognizant, and for a second, Rick doesn't know what to say. He's been so focused having his team wake up that he's neglected to think about what he wants to tell them.

Apparently, that's okay, though. From the next bed, Casey grunts. "And here I thought you were above stating the obvious," he says.

Rick startles and makes a small sound of joy. "You're awake, too!"

"We all are, lad," Billy says with a groan. "It's not polite to talk when some of us are trying to sleep."

Rick yelps gleefully again despite his best intentions. He finds that his self control is somewhat diminished. Perhaps sleeping in a chair in two hour increments has caught up with him.

Michael turns his head to look at the others, too. "Did you guys manage to subdue the rest of the gangsters in the shootout?"

Casey shrugs. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

Billy makes a face. "And I don't even remember the shootout to which you are referring."

Rick is so overwhelmingly relieved that he just gapes.

Michael cocks his head. "So who completed the rescue?"

He's relieved. But he's not stupid. He snorts. "Maybe the only one of us not lying in a hospital bed," he offers sarcastically.

They all look at him. Michael narrows his eyes; Casey looks vaguely suspicious.

Billy lifts his eyebrows. "You?" he asks. "With all three of us incapacitated?"

Rick's indignation flares. "What, you think I can't do it?"

"You have to admit," Michael says with a shrug. "You are a bit untested in the field."

"I am not," Rick objects.

"You did turn to your emergency beacon immediately when things went south," Casey points out.

"Twice," Michael amends.

"Because I had been outed by Chinese _gangsters,_" Rick reminds them. He points to Billy. "And Billy was dying!"

"Don't listen to them," Billy says. "There is no shame in asking for help. Every team needs a damsel in distress, as it were." He winks with a grin. "And you do make a lovely one."

Rick actually flails, arms going wide. "But I saved_ all _of you," he says. "You all managed to mount the _worst rescue missions ever._"

"They weren't flawless, I'll admit," Michael starts.

Rick shakes his head. "No, they were horrible," he says. "Billy got shot and crashed the bike in the middle of the city. And you two - don't even get me started. You alerted a whole team of gangster to our location and then both got taken out in a shootout!"

"Oh, and you think it's so easy," Casey says derisively.

Rick scoffs. "No," he says. "I don't think it's easy at all. I was the one who had to finish the shootout, take out the remaining assailants, get a new vehicle, get out of the city, evade another tail, have _another _shootout, and make it all the way to the US Embassy - all while you laid in the backseat and bled!"

He's almost yelling by the end, his face flushed and his heart racing. Tears are burning inexplicably in his eyes as he stares them down, one by one by one. He's no damsel in distress. Not anymore. Because he's been worried and he's been scared and the fact is, he's been angry. Angry that his team left him in this position, angry that he had to do this alone.

He's just _everything._

"So, no, I don't think it's easy," he continues emphatically. "But I am _not _a damsel in distress on this team. Which is why_ I'm _the one sitting here and_ you _are the ones in the hospital beds. So the way I see it, you have no right to question my rescue skills since _you're _the ones who failed."

The words stand, and Rick squares his shoulders, settling back awkwardly.

"Are you done?" Michael asks.

Rick knits his brows together. He nods. "I think so."

"Good," Michael says. "Because I think we should clarify one point."

Rick hedges uncertainly. "What?"

"First, we are beginning to see that you do have a certain...resourcefulness," Michael concedes.

"Though I expect your exploits are exaggerated," Casey mutters.

Rick glares. "They are not!"

"All the best tales have a wee bit of embellishment," Billy says unhelpfully.

"They're_ not,_" Rick insists.

Michael clears his throat. "We admit this didn't go as well as we'd hoped," he says. "But it didn't fail."

Rick stares in total incredulity. "How's that?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Casey asks.

Rick shakes his head, at a loss.

Billy smiles, a little shyly. "As you have pointed out numerous times now, you are the only one still standing."

Rick blinks.

"And we _did _go in to rescue _you,_" Michael says.

"Which means, in short, that we were actually entirely successful," Casey says.

Billy's grin widens. "So this is, in fact, the _best _rescue ever."

Rick stares. For a moment, he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't even know what to think. The logic is backwards; the sentiment is messed up. The idea just doesn't even make sense. It's so impossible; it's so stupid; it's so..._them._

And Rick realizes he's not really angry at them for getting hurt. He's angry at them for getting hurt _because of him._ This isn't blame; this is guilt. This is wanting to do everything to save his team and knowing it might not always be enough - and trying anyway.

That's why Billy came in on a motorcycle with no exit. That's why Michael and Casey cut corners and picked up a tail. That's why Rick did everything he did. Because they're a team. They do everything they can for each other.

Just like that, Rick's anger deflates. His adrenaline fades. He slumps in the chair and feels the exhaustion of the last week heavy in his bones. "You were still stupid," he mutters petulantly.

"And from the sound of it, so were you," Michael quips back.

"Stupidity is acceptable with enough justification," Casey says.

"And I'd say getting each other out alive is justification enough," Billy says.

"I guess," Rick concedes. "Still. I think if your idea of rescue involves extended hospital stays, it needs some work."

Michael chuckles. "We'll take that under advisement."

It's not perfect, and Rick's nerves are still frayed. He won't forget this mission any time soon, and he's not sure he'll get the image of his teammates, bloodied and entangled in the rearview mirror out of his mind any time soon. But they didn't die, and neither did Rick. His team did save him; and he saved them. They saved each other.

Which is probably the way it's supposed to be.


End file.
